


Les Présages

by drcalvin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyswap, Community: makinghugospin, Crossover, Fix-It, Fluff and Crack, Footnotes, Gen, Pre-slash if you squint?, tea solves everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what they say about walking a mile in someone elses shoes? Certain angels have heard that saying too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Présages

**Author's Note:**

> Crack. Crackity crack crack.
> 
> Written for the bodyswap prompt for the Les Mis kinkmeme.

"...and he gave me back my life!"

And therefore, the angel tried to project at Javert, wouldn't this be the perfect time to re-evaluate the direction said life had been going in? But, as some near fifty years of attempts had proved, Javert's head was – not counting that one moment of divine inspiration when he had turned away from the future life of a criminal – nigh impenetrable. Especially regarding thoughts of mercy, towards his fellow man and himself alike.

"There is nothing on earth that we share; it is either Valjean or Javert!"

Ah yes, Jean Valjean. Another fine contender for the award of Most Stubborn Man in All of France. It had been annoying enough in the hospital in M-sur-M when neither of them had bothered to listen to the other; Valjean had been one little miracle from freezing to his death in the water, while Javert's distrust in the human soul only grew after the perceived betrayal. And now? Unless Aziraphale was very much mistaken (and he rarely was, these days) they were both heading straight into even worse decisions, Javert perhaps somewhat speedier, but the end would be sadly similar. 

"Is he from heaven or from hell?"

The invisible angel at his side snorted in a fairly un-angelic way. Hardly! Only humans could sink to such depths and then rise to such heights again; they were quite fascinating that way, even if it could be a bit annoying when they refused to listen to suggestions about how, really, my dear boy, there's no need to steal from the Bishop – or the little boy – see, I told you, you would come to regret it! Or when they didn't understand that, when Mercy stared them in the face, the correct answer was to respond with (proportional) regret and then devote the rest of one's (natural) life to become a person both just and kind – _for cheese's sake, would you listen to the little angel on your shoulder and get off that bridge!_ – instead of trying to prove just how hardened against miracles life could make a man.

"This man has killed me, even so..."

This wasn't working out at all, was it? Bad enough that Aziraphale hadn't been able to save any of those well-meaning young men [1], or even the dear old book-collector; bad enough that he had been stood up on their bicentennial summer-dinner by a certain someone, whom we shan't name by his slithery little name, the slothful little ingrate... Now the one decent policeman in all of France was about to commit one of the mortal sins? 

"I'll escape now from the world, from the world of Jean Valjean!"

"Oh no, you won't," Aziraphale muttered and cracked his knuckles in the way of serious pianists and miracle workers the world over. "In fact..." 

A smirk grew on Aziraphale's usually placid face. The only one who'd recognize the depths of its deviousness was still snoring away in a bed so gaudy and overwrought that Robespierre would have ordered a whole dozen beheadings at the mere sight of it. A pity for him, since he would be the one who must fill in some very uncomfortable paperwork regarding this night, in about seventy years time when the bureaucracy down below caught up with the Infernal-Divine Balance Sheet and sent some Very Pointed Questions to a certain representative who had snoozed through most of the century. 

In fact, had his counterpart been around, Aziraphale was unlikely to ever have attempted interference on such a scale, because the repercussion would have been dire. But Someone seemed to think it was more interesting to sleep the decades away, than to have a glass of wine and continue their discussion on the philosophy of dolphins, so he didn't feel bound by very many restrictions at all. 

Of course, there were certain formalities that had to be observed. The one thing Aziraphale must not do was interfere with the creation of the Great Work; in other regards he had fairly free hands from Above. The solution then seemed to him, to not merely ensure that at least these two, who had more or less played out their roles in the story anyway, could leave in peace – because with coincidence being the fickle thing she was [2], they were almost guaranteed to run into the author before the end of their lives and ruin everything.

No, Aziraphale was an old hand at this game. If the story must be told, he'd merely have to ensure that the ultimate fate of certain key players became far too unlikely – beyond the level of travelling inside a whale's stomach or flying to heaven in burning carts [3] – so that even with an unlikely encounter someone along the line, be it the author or a diligent editor, would arrange a narratively appropriate death instead of the truth. 

"There is nowhere I can tuuurn –"

Aziraphale shook his sleeves loose and wiggled his fingers; it had been a while since he worked a bona fide miracle of this level, and he wasn't above a bit of showmanship. At that moment, the distressed policeman stopped pacing and stopped in the middle of the bridge, staring into it's swirling depths. Despair fairly dripped of him, and the angel did his best not to roll his eyes. So dramatic, these Frenchmen! He really must try to improve the tea culture on the continent.

"– there is _nowhere to go –_ "

A snap of his fingers, and the policeman stopped projecting agony; instead his body wobbled most precariously. Understanding his position with admirable swiftness, he switched immediately to distress galloping towards panic. He nearly tipped over the edge until a pair of well-manicured hands grabbed his coat and pulled him too safety.

"God in heaven," the man gasped, clutching Aziraphale's arm. 

"There, there," the angel, suddenly dressed much like one would imagine a librarian to look [4], said and patted him comfortingly on the arm. "There, there, my good man. You should be careful about where you take walks, you know?"

"But I – Cosette? Where did I –" The man who still looked exactly like Inspector Javert, down to his impressive mutton-chops and police coat, wore a very un-Inspector Javert-y expression of confusion. He rubbed his forehead and stared around himself wildly, accepting the steaming hot cup from Aziraphale without reflecting on how a freshly brewed cup of tea had just appeared at this bridge. Considering how his last memory was falling asleep in his armchair, the tea was a very minor detail. "Thank you for your assistance, Monsieur! But how in the world..." 

"There, there," Aziraphale said again and patted him somewhat firmer, "have some tea first. You've had a frightful shock, and if I may be so bold, the night has been long and hard already, hasn't it?"

"Ah, yes," Jean Valjean (currently inhabiting the body of Inspector Javert, though he was still safe from noticing that particular little surprise) "absolutely! It has been quite harrowing." He took a deep swallow of tea and managed to stand up. "Pardon, Monsieur, but would you be so kind as to explain how I ended up here? If you know, of course."

"Oh, well – how are any of us here, but by the Lord's grace?" Aziraphale vanished the tea-cup before Valjean could reflect too closely on it and then – sending Javert's cane and hat homewards ahead of him, since he was certain the sight of them would stir up certain questions – he began herding the confused man home. "Right now, I believe it is for the best that you go home. Get into something comfortable, don't wake your daughter, and go back – Ah, pardon, get properly to bed. Ignore the poor fellow already lying there, he needs his sleep. Tomorrow, when you were thinking of preparing yourself to disappear out of your daughter's life in case her beloved survived (which he will by the way, don't worry about that), you will find that you have _far_ more intriguing matters to deal with. Oh, and one more thing. If you are willing to accept a bit of advice regarding stubborn adversaries, from one who has dealt with one of those since the dawn of time?"

"Yes?" Valjean asked, though his glazed eyes made it clear to anyone passing by (not that anyone would, not when they were this covered in this much miracle) that he wasn't quite mentally alert. 

"Do pour some tea into the poor boy," Aziraphale said. He thought for a moment, and then rapped his knuckles on Valjean's (technically Javert's, but this would be complicated enough without such semantics) chest. "And perhaps give him an embrace, once he's grown more amenable to that; tea will help you come to this point. Now, I know they tend to hiss and spit at first, but it helps frightfully well against self-hating thoughts of eternal damnation. Or so I have always found."

"Tea," Valjean repeated mechanically, "and embrace. Yes."

"Excellent. And don't be shy to accept the same from him in return, you've both had far too little of either in your lives! Now then, I have an author to inspire and a king to turn towards mercy, so why don't you just toddle off homewards on your own? There's a good boy."

* * *

[1] Apparently all these deaths would inspire a certain author to write on of the most important works of the century, with great sweeping themes regarding Law, Grace and Human Dignity. Fair enough; never let it be said that Aziraphale would stand in the way of fine literature! But, he had argued, hadn't the Koran been dictated by Gabriel? Didn't Abraham's test with Isaac end just before death? Must, in short, everyone really die for inspiration to strike? And then, couldn't perhaps the entire débâcle be solved if everyone got together and had a nice cuppa? \- Back to text [*]

[2] Adam Young would have had one or two things to say about this description; however, not even he could argue that when Coincidence did have an amazing way of throwing people, especially those of special destinies, together when they least wanted it. \- Back to text

[3] Admittedly, he had underestimated that particular author's willingness to stretch the reader's disbelief. \- Back to text

[4] If a French librarian in 1832 could somehow give the impression that he, despite his cravat and waistcoat (the latter which was almost, but not quite, in a pattern entirely unlike plaid) had just popped over from London in the nineteen-fifties for a small inter-librarian assemblage. Since one of the other guests at such a congress was likely to communicate by 'Oooks', this was less unlikely than one might first think. \- Back to text

[*] Apparently not.


End file.
